


Games You Never Lose

by mokuyoubi



Series: Games [1]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the dust settles, Matt doesn't have anywhere else he wants to be...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games You Never Lose

The sick-clean scent of the hospital had worn off, but he didn’t feel any more healed than he had before, especially since the morphine had run out. McClane had been released before him, which was funny, when he thought about their respective injuries. The McClanes had also headed back to New York, Lucy giving him a shy smile and half-wave that didn’t really fit her personality.

And now he was released, and found himself outside the hospital with no car, no friends to pick him up, and no apartment to go to. “Mister Farrell.” It was one of Bowman’s men, not because he’d identified himself as such, but because of his non-descript suit and boring sunglasses. 

“I’m still not interested in working for you guys,” Matt said tiredly. 

“I’m just here to give you a lift, sir,” the man said, face blank. 

_Yeah, but where to?_ “Great. My very own FBI escort. You guys going to get me a new house, too?” Matt snapped. 

“Where can I take you, sir?” the man asked, further failing to emote. Matt narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Maybe Erik was onto something with his theory on androids working for the US government. 

“I dunno. Just start driving, I guess,” Matt said, looking around the parking lot as if it would offer him some inspiration. “Let me think.” 

McClane had bought him a fresh pair of jeans and a plain white sweater shirt, which he’d happily donned an hour ago, but beyond that and his gear, he had no luggage. In the back seat there was a folder with the FBI seal on the front. He wasn’t really sure how he felt about accepting help from them. He tried to stay off their radar. 

There was a very official letter of thanks from the President of the United States with what was clearly a stamp instead of a real signature, which was probably for the best, since Matt would rather have nothing to do with his President. Along with that was a note from Bowman, slightly more personalised, giving him a very generic update on the progress of the restoration of data. 

It was very bland, and unimpressive, and would have been done much more efficiently if he’d been in charge, or one of his friends, but the government always thought they knew best. He would refrain from pointing out that was how they’d got into the mess with Gabriel. 

Matt looked out the window, watching the still lingering affects of the fire sale. There were abandoned and wrecked cars still lining the sides of the streets, but they had been moved to allow traffic. Many stores were closed, recovering from vandalism or simple bad fortune at being caught in the crossfire. 

There were surprisingly few people on the streets, and he imagined most were still afraid for their well-being. It was funny that Gabriel succeeded in terrifying the public in a way the US government had never quite managed. 

There were a million places he could have named to be taken—his friend Thomas from college, War10ck, hell, even his brother’s place in Virginia. There was no reason to go any further…except now he had this nifty car and no obligations and a strange feeling of loneliness and unease. 

“How are the trains looking?” He leaned over the front seat to hear over the roar of the engine on the highway and the blasting a/c. 

“All mass transportation systems have been restored, all domestic flights west of the Mississippi River, and most Amtrak and Greyhound routes are functioning,” he reported, as if he was reading it off a list. 

“How far can you take me?” Matt asked, testing, not really having reached any decision. 

“As far as you need to go, sir.” 

Two hours to Camden should be sufficient, and Lucy was at Rutgers. It might be okay to talk to someone who had been right there, who had experienced the same thing. And she was beautiful, intelligent and kick-ass. He knew someone like him was damn lucky to get her to even look twice, and McClane had even given…well, if not tacit approval, unspoken, then. 

When he thought about it, it made the most sense. But what about the last week had made any kind of sense? “How long would it take us to get to New York?” 

“City, sir? I could have you there in a little over four hours.” 

Matt settled back in his seat and pulled out his laptop. 

McClane opened the door and made a sound like impatient disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here, kid?” 

“No apartment to go to anymore, remember?” Matt said, trying to sound light-hearted, trying to ignore how real the situation was. 

“How did you even find me?” McClane demanded. 

Matt grinned at him over the chain. “Crazy what you can learn on the internet.” The door closed and opened a moment later and McClane stepped back, letting him in. “Crazy stuff,” Matt pursued. “Stuff about Germans and robbery schemes and terrorists hijacking airports…”

McClane gave him that dangerous blank look. Matt hurried on. “I mean, shit, dude…they just patted us on the back and sent us on our way, and you like, saved the fucking country, man. And it wasn’t the first time.” 

“I’ve never saved the country.” McClane sounded tired. He went into the kitchen. “Seriously, though. What the hell are you doing here?” He pulled down two tumblers and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the counter. Something warm bloomed in Matt’s stomach, like he’d already taken a drink. A kind of familiarity, the feeling of camaraderie he’d felt when they were working together. 

Matt shrugged, and the movement in his stiff shoulder made him want to cringe. His wounds were healing, but out of the hospital and off the morphine he felt like they were all being inflicted all over again. 

McClane had a row of butterfly stitches down his cheek, several over the curve of his skull, a few real ones down his throat. Matt’s eyes fell to McClane’s shoulder, where he knew beneath the clothing was the worst of them all. 

“Didn’t really have anywhere else,” Matt said casually. “My mom’s dead. Dad won’t talk to me ever since I first ended up on the FBI’s black list.” He laughed a little. “And you saw my _friends_.” He thought of War10ck and Tom and Erik and shook his head. “Most of them are either my competition or hangers-on…or so fucking paranoid they wouldn’t let me step one foot inside the door.” 

“So you thought you were welcome here?” McClane asked, dark humour in his voice. He shoved one of the glasses across the counter and Matt caught it. 

“Well,” Matt said, grinning for real this time. He tried, and probably failed miserably at imitating McClane’s voice, “You’re giving me a drink and you haven’t kicked me out yet…”

McClane snorted and finished the drink in one gulp. “I’d have thought you’d be back in Camden by now, trying to worm your way into my daughter’s pants.” He sounded dangerous, and Matt knew first hand how dangerous he was. 

_Not the McClane I had in mind_ , and million other things he _couldn’t_ say ran through his mind. “Thought you’d beat me to death,” Matt tested. McClane moved to stand in the doorway and Matt turned, leaning his elbows on the counter, stretching. McClane’s gaze didn’t move from his face. Matt couldn’t believe he was even doing this. 

McClane tilted his head to the side, rubbed his jaw. He looked into the next room, but his eyes were far away. “Lucy could do worse,” he acknowledged at length. 

Matt wasn’t a romantic man, by any stretch of the imagination. But looking at McClane, jaw tight, expression distant, so closed off, so _vulnerable_ in his invulnerability…it made Matt wonder how he’d got to be that way. And it made him want to reach past it all, maybe see a different expression for once. It was absolutely crazy, because a man like McClane wasn’t gay, and even if he had been, well, he wasn’t Matt’s type. 

“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” Matt ventured, tipping back his head to look through the breezeway in the kitchen into the living room. It was on the smallish side for a house…but then, it was a house in Brooklyn, and here, small still approached upwards of a quarter million. Matt thought about the bullshit with McClane’s 401K, and hoped to god the government was going to at least do something about that. 

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow around the unlit apartment. It was close to nine, and if McClane kicked him out, Matt had precisely nowhere to go. 

“You hungry?” McClane asked suddenly. His voice was a raw and gravely, and Matt liked the sound of it. 

“Starving,” Matt answered. He felt like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, his last real meal before McClane ever showed up at his door, because the hospital food totally didn’t count and he’d been too nervous to eat on the entire ride to the city. 

“Come on.” 

There was a little place around the corner that sold dumplings. They had two flavours and the soda was flat and the place was super tiny and cramped and dirty. McClane drowned everything in hot sauce and dug in with relish. 

“So, don’t you have a job or something?” He asked around a mouthful of pork and cabbage. 

Matt smiled in fondness. “I’m a hacker,” he said, picking at his dumplings. 

“They pay you for that shit?” McClane asked, looking dubious. Then his eyes narrowed. “You don’t do what Gabriel was doing? Stealing other peoples’ financial information, or whatever.” 

“Did, like, even half of what I said when we met register with you?” McClane shot him that blank look, then arched a brow. “Look, like I said, I’m a white hat. I mean, I fucked around when I was a kid, did some shit I shouldn’t have, but now I’m one of the good guys. I usually work for security—people hire me to hack their systems and find the weaknesses. And after everything that just went down, I’m getting a tonne of offers.” He smiled ruefully. “Especially now that Gabriel killed most of the other people who _would_ help.” 

McClane shook his head dismissively. “All this shit, too complicated for me.” 

“Someday, McClane, you’re going to come into the new millennia…it might be painful and difficult at first, but trust me, it’s for the best,” Matt said drolly. 

McClane’s eyes narrowed. “If this means listening to what you call popular music, I think I’m just fine hanging out in the seventies.” 

He’d thought it was going to be awkward, and talking to McClane wasn’t exactly _easy_ , but it wasn’t awful. It was relaxed. It was comfortable. Two hours, four beers and two pain pills a piece later, McClane told him he could have the couch and even gave him a couple blankets and a pillow. 

It was dark, the hall in the light the only thing on, and McClane’s eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in a week. Matt wondered how heavily it weighed, the deaths McClane had caused in that time, intentionally or not. He looked tense, wired and weary all at once. 

“I’ll drive you to your place tomorrow,” McClane offered, lingering on the sofa at Matt’s side, like he didn’t want to leave. 

“Don’t you have to work?” Matt asked. 

“I’m on something of a forced vacation,” McClane muttered, pulling a face. 

“I can work from anywhere,” Matt said softly. 

“Look, kid—” 

Matt ducked his head, tilted it to the side, leaned in. His lips just brushed McClane’s, but it was enough to silence him. 

How could he explain it without sounding ridiculous, but he’d never felt like this before—he sat at his computer day in and out, sometimes going for a week without venturing out of his apartment, without speaking directly to another human being, and yeah, computers were what he liked and what he knew, and no, he wasn’t built like McClane, wasn’t meant to be the hero…but in the time they’d been together he’d come to a few realisations, about how useless and empty his life had been, how limited his existence. And McClane made him laugh, made his pulse go faster. 

“…what the hell are you doing?” McClane moved his head only scant millimetres to the side, his lips whispering against Matt’s as he spoke. 

Matt tried again, kissing more firmly, getting a nice feel of how their lips fit together, of the scrape of McClane’s facial hair before McClane jerked back. Their eyes met and Matt was breathing hard for no good reason. He pressed in again, moulding his lips to McClane’s, lapping at McClane’s top lip. 

“The _fuck_?!” McClane hissed, fighting against him, but Matt reached up, wrapped a hand around the back of McClane’s neck, held on. 

“Kiss me back,” Matt muttered against his mouth. He bit down on McClane’s bottom lip, sucked. His other hand came up to clasp McClane’s shoulder. 

McClane grabbed his wrist hard and twisted, pushed him away, but Matt clutched tighter to his neck, fingers digging into skin. McClane pushed him into the couch, fingers of his free hand prying at Matt’s, trying to coax himself free. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” McClane growled. 

“Show me,” Matt said breathlessly. His fingers clenched and he jerked McClane down. He fought all the way, so Matt pushed himself up on his elbows instead and caught his mouth again, violently this time, thrusting his tongue between McClane’s panting lips. 

McClane could have broken his arm, could have bit his tongue in half, probably, could have done any of a million things to make him regret the action. But he didn’t. “Matt,” he said, his tone warning, pulling back. 

“John,” Matt said back, tone bordering on insolent, he knew, but unable to help it. He loosened his grip on McClane’s neck, letting his fingers draw lightly down the skin. 

“This is bad, kid,” McClane muttered. 

Matt laughed out loud and that startled McClane who leaned back even further, easing off of Matt altogether, staring at him with wide eyes. He looked shell-shocked. “I’ll make it a whole hell of a lot better,” Matt promised and slid onto the floor on his knees between McClane’s legs, a hand on each knee, spreading them wider apart. And McClane _let_ him. 

Testing, Matt ran his hands up the inside of McClane’s thighs, felt the muscles in them flex under his touch. He pressed his thumbs into the seams of the jeans and McClane squirmed. This was dangerous territory, but Matt wasn’t quite ready to back down yet. Maybe McClane wasn’t one hundred percent into this thing yet, but he wasn’t saying _no_ , which actually meant a lot of _yes_. 

McClane was hard, like straining against his zipper hard, and when Matt brought a hand up to cup him, McClane’s eyes fell closed and his head fell back to rest on the sofa. Matt wondered how long it had been since someone had touched him like this, and who that person had been. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who let anyone very close, which probably explained the ex-wife thing. Which also made Matt’s progress that much more impressive. 

Matt lowered the zipper one aching tooth at a time, the sound echoing in the otherwise still apartment. Boxer briefs tented and with a damp spot and Matt groaned in the back of his throat, already _tasting_ it. He put his hands at the waist and McClane lifted his hips just long enough for Matt to get the jeans and underwear off his hips. 

Of course, it was no surprise that McClane was impressive, but it didn’t stop Matt from appreciating it, because here was John McClane, hard for _him_. Matt encircled the erection with one hand, pumping up the long, thick curve of him and McClane’s hips rose from the couch, chasing the touch. Matt pressed his thumb against the uncircumcised head, easing back the flesh, drawing a groaned “ _Shit_ ,” from McClane. 

Matt grinned and sat up on his knees. He eased his mouth slowly down McClane’s length, cradling his cock to the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and sucking hard. McClane’s fingers turned white clenching into the couch and Matt wondered what it would take to make him lose that last shred of control, to make McClane grab _him_ instead. He swirled his tongue around the width of McClane’s cock making him shudder. He _wanted_ to come. He _needed_ to come, and still he fought it. _Jesus_ , the man was stubborn, and Matt figured it probably didn’t even have to do with him being a guy so much as McClane not giving in. 

He deep-throated McClane, relaxing his throat, practically drooling around the thickness of him. One hand pushed McClane’s legs further apart, the other found its way between McClane’s thighs, cupping and massaging his balls, and _that_ got him. Matt sucked hard all the while, swallowing each hot, salty pulse, moaning around his mouthful. 

Matt released the softening cock with a wet sound and sat back on his heels, looking up at McClane with a smug grin. McClane was boneless, sprawled out on the couch, eyes blinking at the ceiling. Matt reached up and began to undo the buttons of McClane’s shirt and McClane didn’t stop him. 

It was just how he had imagined it, McClane’s body, all rock hard planes and sloping curves and raw muscle, like he’d been sculpted by another hand. He pushed the two halves of the shirt apart, exposing a litany of scars, some smooth and round, some long, some jagged. The bandage over his collarbone was beginning to seep through with red and Matt wondered guiltily if that was because of their struggle. 

Slowly, Matt leaned in to press a kiss to one of the scars, tracing its winding path up McClane’s ribs toward his nipple. “Kid,” McClane rasped, “I’m not getting it up again tonight.” 

Matt grinned against his skin, pressed a kiss to his chest. “I think it’s kinda kinky, you calling me ‘kid,’” Matt murmured, and to his great surprise, McClane let out a shaky little laugh. It was just like the sort he gave when he’d escaped certain death, jubilant, relieved, grateful to be alive, but disbelieving, too. 

McClane shuddered when Matt kissed him again, putting his hands on either side of McClane’s hips and pushing. When they met, his lips were yielding. The kiss was hesitant, the kiss of a man unsure that what he was doing was the right thing. But slowly, slowly he regained the confidence Matt had seen him use in all things, and the kiss turned forceful and demanding. 

McClane grabbed him suddenly, an arm around his waist, a hand on the flat of his back knocking him off balance. He scrambled up onto the couch, over McClane’s lap, hyper-aware of the fact that he was still hard and McClane was half-naked. 

“Let me just…” Matt said into the kiss, fumbling with his fly, sighing in relief when he freed his cock from his boxers. He closed his hand around himself, pumping furiously and McClane devoured his mouth, kissing like he fought, like kissing looked in movies but never was in real life, making Matt think he could never be quite satisfied with another person. 

“Come on,” McClane growled into his mouth, jerking him forward. “Come on, you little fucker. Come all over me.” 

“Shit!” Matt surprised himself, McClane’s voice as good as a caress, and came hard, throwing back his head. McClane bit at his throat, his day old beard scratching Matt’s skin raw, his teeth blunt and painful. He collapsed forward, mindful of McClane’s wound, slumping to the right. His face fell in the curve of McClane’s neck and he panted against the sweaty skin, watching goosebumps rise. 

_What now_? He hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t let him consider even succeeding, because it had been one hell of a gambit. He sucked a bit of McClane’s skin between his teeth, worrying a mark into existence. Well, he said he was on vacation—no one to have to explain it to. McClane groaned and grabbed his arms, pushed him away. 

“You look like shit,” Matt told him bluntly. 

McClane laughed again, more relaxed this time. “This how you always sweet talk people?” 

Matt shook his head in amusement. “Have you even slept?” 

“Some. I could sleep now.” 

Matt took the hint and stood up, giving him room. McClane looked down at himself in a kind of awed silence. Probably the first time he’d ever even seen another guy’s come, and it was all over his stomach. But he sat up and shrugged the rest of the way out of his shirt, not even wincing, and used that to wipe away the mess. 

“You should…” Matt said, and trailed off, gesturing to the bandage. 

McClane jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. “In the bathroom,” he grunted, and Matt found the gauze, tape and iodine already on the counter by the sink. McClane only grimaced a little when Matt peeled back the old bandage. Compared to his own shot wound, McClane’s was far worse. Good thing Gabriel had been a shit shot, or Matt might have ended up with a shattered kneecap. As it was, the bullet hadn’t caused any lasting damage in his thigh, though it ached when he walked or stood for too long. McClane’s single wound was wider, probably from the second bullet. It was an angry red, but McClane didn’t seem concerned by this, and from his scars, he should know. 

He dabbed the iodine over the wound, made careful swipes so the cotton wouldn’t cling, then cut a fresh piece of gauze and tapped it to the skin, just taunt enough. When Matt looked up, McClane was watching him. “Did you even think about that?” he asked. 

“Well, we know where my thinking gets me,” Matt told him humorously. 

“Into trouble?” McClane guessed. 

“Are we in trouble?” Matt asked. He could hear his heartbeat very acutely in his head. McClane made a soft sound in the back of his throat and caught Matt under the chin, pulling him up for another kiss. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Matt murmured against his lips. 

As if to prove a point, McClane clamped a hand over his thigh and squeezed. Matt let out a surprised squawk of pain, setting his jaw. “What the _hell_?” 

“Take off your pants,” McClane ordered. Matt stood back and loosened his jeans, let them drop but kept on his boxers. McClane might be comfortable enough to lay there with his limp cock hanging out, but he had nothing to be embarrassed about. His bandage was seeping too, and he suddenly didn’t know if that was because of McClane, or because he had got on his knees on the hardwood floor. In fact, he hadn’t even felt the wound earlier, so wrapped up in the moment. 

McClane tore the bandage away, eliciting a hiss of pain from Matt. McClane chuckled a little, but his touch was gentle when he dressed the wound. His fingers brushed over bare skin upward, making the back of Matt’s neck tingle. He felt a stir in his groin and couldn’t believe it, but then again, it was McClane. 

“I’m not going to blow you, kid,” McClane whispered, but he was so damn close, McClane could just open his mouth and Matt could just push forward. The glint in McClane’s eyes told him he shouldn’t risk it. 

“Then touch me,” Matt coaxed. “It’s just like touching yourself.” McClane snorted, but his hand kept moving upward. It was like something out of a dream, the slow way McClane took hold of him, and it probably was just like he held himself, firm and tight and he jerked Matt off mercilessly, like he just wanted it to be over. 

McClane lay back on the couch after, arm tossed over his eyes. Matt was hesitant, crawling up to occupy the space beside him, the leather squeaking in protest. He hooked an arm around McClane’s waist to secure himself and McClane’s hand fell onto his shoulder. 

“You’re not even handsome, or pretty,” McClane muttered. 

Matt grinned. “I’m cute. Besides, someone once told me that scars were sexy.” 

McClane laughed a little, and when he spoke, it sounded bitter. “Yeah, sexy.” 

“Sexy,” Matt echoed with conviction, tracing his fingers over a bullet wound on McClane’s stomach. 

He woke up with a dry throat and the taste of stale cum on his tongue. On top of that, his arm was trapped between his body and McClane’s and had fallen asleep, and the awkward angle of his neck was going to leave him sore all day. McClane’s mouth was hanging open, and his hand was on Matt’s ass, holding him in place. That was enough to make him want to stay put…

But the sun was peeking into the room, grey early morning light that always made Matt feel depressed. It was the time of morning he usually slipped into bed, and this whole fire sale slash life altering event slash hospitalisation had really thrown off his sleep schedule. 

“John,” he murmured, putting a hand to McClane’s chest and shaking gently. McClane’s arm tightened around him and he wiggled further into the couch and made a small sound. Matt sighed, felt a smile tugging at his lips. “John, will you let me sleep in your bed?” 

“Whatever, kid.” 

“I’ll need my ass, John,” Matt whispered. Goddamn, why did he feel so _giddy_ around this man, like everything he said or did was something worth smiling about? McClane made him so happy it was absurd. 

McClane muttered something under his breath, released him and rolled over, tucking himself neatly in the fold at the back of the couch. Matt rose to his feet, testing the painful throb in his thigh, stretching his back and hearing several popping sounds. “Come on,” he said, touching his hand lightly to McClane’s arm. “You too.” 

They stumbled down the short hallway together, and Matt wondered why McClane bothered with a two-storey house if he lived and slept only on the first floor. Had he got it when he and his wife had been reconciled? Were there rooms upstairs for Lucy and John Junior? Thinking about such things reminded him of the numerous issues that lay between them, of things that would need addressing, sooner or later. 

There was a half a glass of water and more pain pills by the bed, and Matt greedily helped himself, then offered them to McClane, but he was already under the covers, eyes closed. Matt gingerly crawled in beside him, rolling on his side to look the man in the face. 

He’d read the files, knew McClane was over fifty, but he didn’t look like it, especially not now, his face slack with sleep. And anyway, Matt had never thought about it too much, but an age difference wasn’t the sort of thing he’d get worked up over. 

He rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and McClane spoke into the silence. “It wears off soon enough.” 

“What does?” Matt asked, aiming for casual. He might have been talking about the medication, or the pain, or anything, but something about made Matt’s stomach feel heavy. There was only silence. “What does, John?” 

John didn’t answer, and his breathing was slow and even. Matt closed his eyes resolutely. 


End file.
